


unsteady

by Daughter_of_the_Stars



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Russian Roulette, Sad with a Happy Ending, Suicide Attempt, someone give these boys a hug please, yo david cage i blame you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-24 03:52:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15621933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Stars/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Stars
Summary: A gun, a photograph, and a bottle of cheap whiskey.Connor would consider it the start of a bad joke, if it wasn't so terrifying.





	1. (if you love me) don't let go

It was raining.

It pelted down in a steady roar. Stinging sheets permeated the ground, darkened the evening sky to midnight and formed large puddles on the asphalt. That was nothing new for Detroit, especially in late November, but something about this storm felt particularly dangerous. The air was charged with electricity; a tension, palpable and pulled taut, just waiting for the right moment to snap. So, when Connor stepped out of the automated taxi and into the downpour, he blamed the weather for the way his chest immediately tightened and his Thirium regulator pounded just a little faster.

If he was being perfectly honest, he didn't know what he was doing. The run-down suburb was quiet save for the rain, and beneath, the faint hum of the street lamps and the general din of the city. It was peaceful, in its own way, and gave him a few moments to gather his thoughts, erratic as they were. All he knew, all he was certain of, was that he might not survive his mission to CyberLife. Markus had trusted him enough to agree to the plan, and Connor decided that for all the other's care was misplaced, he'd liked the warmth - Relief? Gratitude? - that flooded his systems at the revolutionary's reluctance to send him off on a suicide mission. For the first time in his very short life, he felt like, to some degree, he mattered.

No. That was wrong. He'd mattered before that. He just hadn't seen how much.

Regrets were a very human thing, and while unfamiliar to Connor, his weren't a question. He didn't expect or anticipate forgiveness. But he had to face what he'd done. The life - the man - he had broken.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he trudged silently through the muck that had overtaken the front yard. By the time he reached the porch, he was soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead and clothes clinging to him like a second, frigid skin. Shivering, he raised a hand to knock. Paused. Knuckles tightening in restraint, he forced his hand back to his side, fingers curling into a shaking fist, and opted instead to simply reach for the doorknob. He twisted, expecting it to be locked. The mechanism clicked, turning easily in his palm. Connor drew a sharp breath.

Whereas the exterior lights had been left on, the inside of the house was dim, the television casting white glows over the living room. It took his eyes a fraction of a second to adjust, but he called out regardless.

“Hank?”

The man in question, hunched over the kitchen table, didn't so much as stir. Sumo perked up for a moment, recognizing his familiar presence as he knelt to run a hand through the St. Bernard's soft fur. But then he lowered his head back to his paws and whimpered, watching his owner intently. Connor was rapidly coming to share the animal's distress.

He pushed himself to his feet and, with far more apprehension than he'd thought he could possess, approached the starkly-lit kitchen. Hank still had yet to lift his head; to look away from Cole's photograph.

“I needed to see you, Lieutenant," he began, fidgeting in a way he never had before. He didn't know why he was so anxious. It wasn't like he didn't deserve whatever the man - _I cost him everything_ \- could throw his way. Hell; if Hank decided to raise the gun and shoot him, he wouldn't have tried to stop him. "In spite of all our differences, I’m glad I had the chance to meet you.” 

The terrible silence went uninterrupted. Connor swallowed hard. He was half ready to beg. “I was worried about you, Lieutenant," he continued. "I came to see if you were alright."

Connor straightened abruptly as Hank finally looked up at him, and almost wished he hadn't. The look in his eyes - a dull, barely angry indifference - was more than he could bear. He simply appeared... drained. Empty. Like the man he'd come to know was already gone, leaving a haunted shell behind.

Still, at least Connor knew he was listening. "I know I’m responsible for what happened. I want you to know I'm sorry," he said, hoping his tone sounded genuine. Hank had already returned his focus to the table.

Desperation rising, he fought to keep his voice level as he leaned forward slightly, trying to catch the Lieutenant's eye again. As painful as it was, it was better than feeling like he was grasping at nothing. “You should stop looking at that photo, Lieutenant,” he implored firmly. “Nothing can change the past. But you can learn to live again." His voice softened. "For yourself, and for Cole.”

“For a while there, I believed in you, Connor,” Hank said, and Connor felt sick when he met his gaze. He sounded as exhausted as he looked and twice as apathetic, but the disappointment that saturated his eyes and voice alike nearly sent Connor to his knees. Hank was speaking again before he could think of anything to say. “I thought you might restore my faith in the world. But you just showed me that androids are our creation. Creation in our own image. Selfish, ruthless and brutal.” He smiled, but it couldn't have felt more wrong. There was no warmth, not even irritation. Just... nothing. “You opened my eyes, Connor. Made me realize it’s hopeless.”

_But it’s not,_ Connor wanted to scream. _I was wrong!_ Though his system told him his vocal processor was fully functional, he couldn't seem to force the words past his lips. They moved but made no sound. His eyes burned like they had in the church, and he fought the sensation back just as hard. 

“Hank, I-...” he finally pushed out, uneven and hoarse, only to trail off because _what could he say?_

Hank blinked at him. “Now leave me alone,” he said, then gave a vague, half-hearted gesture to the door. “Go on, complete your mission, since that’s all you care about.”

Connor's gaze fell slowly to the floor, shoulders sagging in defeat. If he left now, there was a 99.43% chance that Hank would take his own life. Barely a week ago, he would've chalked it up to an unfortunate but acceptable loss. Currently, the thought of the gunshot - of the tang of sulfur, of a pool of red staining the table, of the shrill sound of Sumo wailing - filled him with dread. No. No, it was too much. 

He wouldn't walk away.

He _couldn't._

 **PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: HELP THE REVOLUTION  
** **SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: PROTECT LT. ANDERSON  
** **REORDERING...**

**PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: PROTECT LT. ANDERSON**

Connor took a small step forward, shaking his head. “You’re wrong,” he said. “I-”

He recoiled as Hank's head whipped up. “ _Get outta here!_ ” the man hollered, eyes hard. Recovering, Connor frowned and planted himself a little more resolutely, hands in fists at his sides to hide their tremble.

“I’m not leaving, Lieutenant,” he replied sharply before his voice softened. He doubted Hank would take it as sincere. “I’ll stay here all night if I have to.” He was met with a forceful, angry sigh. Connor knew full well he was pushing it when he took several more slow, measured strides forward, like he was edging closer to a caged animal. There was a fear in his gut - or, at least, there would have been if he were human - that screamed for him to just _get out_ , but worry for Hank greatly overshadowed it. So, as he placed a hand on the table and leaned down at the man's side, he injected a plea into his words. “Hank.” For a moment, he struggled again. “I know-... I know what I did was wrong. But I-”

A humorless snort cut him off. “Do you now, Connor?” Hank asked, and for a moment, there was bitterness in his voice. “You know, when you died and came back… it reminded me of Cole. I’d give anything to hold him in my arms just one more time. But humans don’t come back, do they?”

Connor bit his lip, contemplating how to reply, but he didn't have the chance. All at once, Hank was staring at him, gaze alight and shaking with anger. “What right do you have?" he spat, voice strained quiet. "What fucking right t’ come into my house and try t’ convince me that you’re anything but a machine?!”

“Lieutenant-”

Hank stood so suddenly, practically bursting from the chair, that Connor stumbled back out of sheer surprise. Already off balance, the shove that followed sent him crashing to the floor. Hank loomed over him, radiating rage, and that was when Connor's fear began to win out. “‘Cause that’s all you are, Connor! You don’t feel emotions, you fake ‘em! You pretended to care, to be my friend when you don’t even know the meaning of the word!”

Connor struggled for a breath that wouldn't come, that he didn't need, as Hank dragged him off the linoleum tiles and slammed him back against the counter, hands at his collar. His head hit the cupboards, and an error message appeared in his vision. Another followed a heartbeat later as Thirium began to trickle down the back of his neck. 

**STRESS LEVEL: 87%**

Connor blinked it away. It didn't matter if he was afraid. It didn't matter if Hank damaged him into emergency shutdown. All that mattered was that he wasn't pulling the trigger, and wouldn't so long as his attention was focused on him. He realized the futility of that line of thought - it wouldn't solve anything, not in the long run - but decidedly didn't care. For all his supposed superior intelligence, he couldn't think of anything else to do.

A fist connected with his jaw, and he was back on the ground, unable to stop a yelp of pain as he landed on the unyielding surface. He felt the synthetic skin give way where Hank had hit him, exposing the pristine white and grey plastic beneath. Neon words told him the biocomponent was damaged, and that he should return to CyberLife for repairs. He almost laughed at the utter irony of that recommendation. _Yeah,_ he thought. _Wonderful idea._

“You shot that fucking girl! You let me think you gave a damn, and then you blew her brains out!” Hank yelled in his face, drawing him up by his jacket only to lay another hit on his face. His vision glitched with static. It _hurt_. “All you care about is your fucking mission! You didn’t give a shit, did you? Didn’t even register in that smartass fuckin’ head of yours!”

“Hank, please-” he tried, lifting a hand in feeble hopes of warding off the attacks. He had stopped trying to hold back his tears, but if Hank noticed, he gave no sign of caring.

Another punch, this time to his temple. Another warning, bright red, mingling with the glow of his LED in his peripheral.

“A fuckin’ computer, nothin' but plastic and wires!”

Gasping, what little was left of Connor's more forceful programming kicked in, and he rolled aside on instinct, tearing himself out of Hank's grasp. The movement nearly tripped the man, and he doubled over, hands hitting the ground to keep himself from flying face-first into the set of drawers. Taking the merciful respite to cast his gaze frantically about the kitchen, his eyes skipped over the space and came to land on the gun, sitting on the table. A gun, with one bullet.

 **STRESS LEVEL: 100%**  
**ERROR: CRITICAL SOFTWARE CORRUPTION DETECTED**

Without giving his system time to list all the reasons why it was a terrible idea, Connor sprung forward, swiping the gun off the table in one panicked yet surprisingly graceful movement. He swiveled, the corner of the counter digging into his back as he slumped against it. He watched Hank recover for a moment, trying to return his breathing to a normal rhythm before looking to the revolver in his hand. It glinted silver in the bright light, and Connor could see the reflection of his LED warped in the barrel. Hank had threatened him with this very gun, and he had stood defiantly, called his partner's bluff.... had it been only the night before?

_“Are you afraid to die, Connor?”_

Connor closed his eyes and raised the gun, settling it beneath his chin. The cold bite of metal was distantly familiar. Of course it was, he realized, because this was exactly what Simon had felt in his final moments. When they'd found him on the Stratford roof. When Connor had practically forced him - desperate and injured and absolutely _terrified_ \- to end his own life.

_Yes,_ he confessed to a conversation that should've gone differently. _But I’m more afraid of losing you._

On a slow exhale, he turned his gaze to the floor. The sound of the hammer being drawn had Hank swiveling fast enough to give Connor whiplash. The Lieutenant's eyes widened, a substantial portion of the all-consuming rage sapping from his expression to be replaced by something that looked like shock. After a long minute, in which the only sounds were Sumo's continued whines, and the shallow, irregular breaths of both human and android, his anger returned. Connor figured he thought he was playing him. In a way, he supposed he was.

“The fuck are you doing?" Hank demanded through gritted teeth. "The fuck’re you trying t’ p-”

_Click._

His partner shut up in less time than it took Connor to blink. The later let out another breath, steadier this time, and made a mental tally mark. One down. There was a 20% chance the next pull of the trigger could end his life. He slid the hammer back again.

He shifted to sink fully to the ground. “I’m sorry, Hank,” he began quietly, looking anywhere but at the Lieutenant. His voice was far more level than he would've thought, slightly scratchy from tears that continued to fall. “I’m so sorry.” He meant it, and for everything. For being the reason he'd turned in his badge. For things Hank had watched him do, and things he knew, and things he didn't. For the questions he'd had no right to ask, and the pain he'd have given anything to have never caused. 

A breathy whimper tumbled from his lips.

“I know. I know, you’re right. I’m a machine. Just a machine.”

_Click._

Hank tensed. He was looking at him differently now. The anger was still present, his system told him as much, but it was more of an afterthought. Wide-eyed, mouth set in a grim line. Disbelief. Fear. Concern.

“Connor...” he breathed, half extending a hand towards him. Connor shook his head, resting on the wood behind him. Another tick. 25% chance.

“I gave Daniel my word on that rooftop," he said. His mouth curled into a self-loathing sneer, fingers beginning to tremble. "He trusted me, and I let him be killed anyways.”

_Click._

33.33%. He heard Hank's breath hitch. “For fuck’s sake, Con-!”

Connor raised his voice, speaking over the Lieutenant's shouting. “I let that Traci and her partner go," he calmed again, to a more peaceable volume, once Hank stopped talking, “because I wanted to. Because pulling the trigger was wrong. Because I’d never-” His voice caught, and he drew a shaking inhale in time with the revolver's hammer. “I’d never seen love before. Not between androids.” He stared hard at the kitchen tiles, speaking a little more deliberately. “I didn’t understand… but I wanted to. I wanted to know what that was like. To be able to feel.”

He finally met Hank's gaze, and held it. His throat went dry, and his words came out a remorseful croak. “I shot Chloe…” he said, wincing in spite of himself. “I killed her because I was afraid. I knew what I was doing. I knew CyberLife would find out I was slipping. That I was having thoughts that weren’t part of my program. That I was compromised.” His voice dropped into a quivering whisper. “And I was scared.” That, at least, felt good to admit, even as he looked away. “I didn’t want to die. I know what it feels like, and I couldn’t-...”

He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut against the gunshot, and the truck, and the memory of there suddenly being _nothing_. 

“I didn’t want to feel it again. So I decided I couldn’t fail.”

_Click._

Connor opened his eyes on a gasp in time to see Hank lurch forward, only to freeze when he looked the man in the eye. He wasted no time priming the weapon again. It was a solid 50/50. 

“I hurt you,” he said smoothly; a statement of fact. “I pushed you away, because I was scared of what you were doing to me.” Connor offered a small smile, relaxed and warm, to Hank's look of growing horror. “Of course I care, Lieutenant. In the beginning, I admit I-... I only behaved amicably… o-or at least tried to, because it would simplify my mission. But then…” He trailed off, and though his brow creased, his smile softened. “Then Officer Miller told me that you cried when I was killed on the freeway.” His expression fell, and he pressed his lips together. “And I was ashamed. I wanted to be your friend. To earn your trust. To be worthy of your tears.”

_Click._

That was it. One more. The next chamber held the bullet.

Hank realized it too. It could've been his imagination - _he knew it wasn't_ \- but he could've sworn the man's eyes misted. “Connor…” he murmured, reaching out properly this time. His voice shook as much as Connor's hand. “Just stop. Just… just put the gun down.”

“Instead, I ruined your life,” Connor's smile returned, strained, as though he hadn't heard the Lieutenant at all. “I am sorry, Hank. Truly. But I can’t let you die because of me. I hope this makes things easier.” He wasn't sure how it would, but he couldn't think clearly - could barely think at all, with his system's stress levels still blaring at full capacity. He didn't want to die, but it looked like the most reasonable option. “Thank you. Even if you didn’t know you were doing it, you-... you made me feel alive.” For a moment, his smile widened; goofy and lopsided, like he knew Hank had grown used to seeing, however rarely it had happened. “I apologize in advance for the mess.”

Several things happened in the following three seconds. Connor sent a message addressed to Markus, apologizing and warning him of the possibility of another RK800 model coming after him. He slid the hammer back a final time, feeling the now slightly-warm metal press an indent into his thumb. And then he prayed. 

_rA9, protect him. Please._

Hank screamed his name. “Connor-!”

A single gunshot, impossibly loud, cracked the air.

**MISSION SUCCESSFUL**

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that was depressing. I'm not pulling myself out of this rabbit hole any time soon
> 
> i'm debating a second chapter. Happy ending?
> 
> someone please take my keyboard away


	2. hold on

"Connor-!"

A second. He was just a second too slow.

He lurched forward, hand closing around Connor's forearm, pulling hard. But then the gunshot echoed, deafening, in his ears. It reverberated around the room, leaving everything ringing. Sumo wailed once - loud and piercing - and the silence that followed was suffocating. He shoved himself away on instinct, landing on the kitchen tiles with enough force that he was immediately certain he'd bruised something, but the pain didn't register. His eyes were fixed on Connor, watching him topple backward, the world not moving in slow-motion as he'd expected but all too fast. In a blur he lay motionless, slumped against the cupboards, chin tilted upward and baring the sparking black-and-blue mess of the wound. Thirium began to flow smoothly toward the collor of his jacket.

Just a second.

At this point, Hank figured that was the story of his life.

His breath came in a rush, all sulfur and rain, and Hank choked on it. Turning aside, he retched, the hand he clamped to his mouth doing little to stop the bile that ended up on the floor. He heaved again, eyes and nose burning, and shoulders shaking as a series of wet sobs and gasps forced themselves from his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he swallowed hard, pushing down the next urge, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He forced himself to hold a quivering inhale, then another. With one, trembling hand, he reached up and managed to snag a dishrag. _Small favors,_ came his musings, unbidden, as he wiped his face with the clean cloth. Dropping it to the floor, where it began to absorb the disgusting puddle of whatever his body had expelled, he swiveled in jerking motions to sit against a row of drawers.

The silence dragged on. A minute passed. Maybe two? Hank didn't count. Trying to will his heart's jarring pound to slow was futile, and calming his breathing turned out to be an equally impossible chore. His eyes were fixed, not on the gaping hole under his partner's chin - just off-center, angled, the exit wound above his temple rather than straight up - but on Connor's face. His eyes were closed, mouth set in a faint ghost of that smile Hank had convinced himself was infuriating. He looked... peaceful. Like he had died contented. There was no way for Hank to rationalize how _wrong_ it looked.

He couldn't seem to make his legs cooperate, so he crawled across the kitchen floor instead, fingers scraping the tiles, only drawing himself onto his knees once he had one hand on Connor's shoulder and the other firmly on the countertop.

"Connor," he breathed, voice hitching. "Oh, god... oh no..." 

His view of his partner blurred as a pin-pricking sensation that was all too familiar assaulted his eyes. He firmly told the small part of his brain that was somehow still functioning - the one that whispered that it didn't matter, _he'll just come back, he's a machine_ \- to go fuck itself and, movements shaky, drew Connor into his arms. Blue blood soaked through the fabric of his old DPD academy sweatshirt as the android fell against his shoulder, and Hank raised a hand to keep him there, cradling the back of his head. The other grasped feebly at the cuff of Connor's jacket, almost checking for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. He leaned over to press his face to Connor's forehead. He wasn't sure if he'd started crying earlier, but all at once he was weeping, eyes screwed shut and lips pressed firmly together to contain the sobs that jumped in his throat. Tears tumbled hot down his cheeks in abrupt contrast to the chill of the Thirium that seemed to coat everything.

 _Way to go, Anderson. You killed another kid._ The thought was sharp as a knife, pushing all the air from his lungs on a broken cry, anguished and through gritted teeth. He pulled Connor closer, quaking violently, muttering pleas and apologies in between struggles for breath. By now, Sumo had padded into the room to see what was going on. The St. Bernard tried to be helpful, giving his owner's cheek a lick before settling down to push his nose onto Connor's hip, where Hank was still clutching his arm. The later hadn't the heart, nor the energy to push the animal away. Sumo whined, and Hank continued to cry.

Slowly, the tears ebbed, leaving him feeling drained. He opened his eyes and let out a low breath against Connor's hairline, drawing back slightly. Something caught in his peripheral, and he blinked to clear the burn of dry air as he turned his head.

Connor's LED, barely visible.

It was still spinning red.

"Connor!"

Adrenaline hit him hard, and his heart began to pound anew as he straightened his partner's limp form, turning his face to make sure his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. Sumo barked, leaping up at the sudden flurry of movement. Sure enough, the LED flickered and churned a sluggish crimson, dull but constant. He was alive. Cursing himself for not checking, he lay Connor down as carefully as he could and reached for another, closer set of drawers, unceremoniously yanking them open in a frantic search for something that could stem the flow of blood from the wound. Finding nothing, he settled on pulling off his already stained sweater, bundling the fabric before pressing it firmly to the underside of the android's chin. His other hand went to Connor's chest, feeling the hiccuping whirl of whatever it was that kept him going, then to the side of his face.

"Hold on, son," he muttered, feeling dazed. "Just hold on. I've gotcha. I'm gonna save you."

The phone rang from the living room. Hank ignored it, focusing on keeping pressure on the wound. It rung out, and quiet settled for a heartbeat before it began to sound again. He wasn't exactly inclined to see who it was, but realized that having the phone at hand might not be a bad idea. So, after casting a glance to Connor - the light of his LED appeared to have strengthened slightly - he stumbled to his feet. The room was still dark, but the glow of the TV let him see the old handheld, sitting in its cradle on the window sill. He swiped it up and was already pivoting on his heel to hurry back to the kitchen when he answered. 

"What?!"

There was a pause on the other end. "Is this Lieutenant Anderson?" came a cautious male voice.

"Yeah," Hank replied, bracing a hand on the doorframe. In the harsh kitchen lights, Connor looked impossibly small. Sumo had laid himself down, practically on top of Connor, paws and head pressed up against his makeshift bandage. _Good boy, Sumo,_ Hank thought distantly. _You keep him alive for a minute._

"Lieutenant, this is Markus."

A jolt of shock went through Hank. Android revolutionary Markus? He sputtered in surprise, but couldn't find anything to say. How Robo-Jesus had even gotten his phone number escaped him. Luckily, he didn't have to - Markus was already speaking again.

"Is Connor with you?" he asked, and Hank's blood turned to ice. "I received a rather... troubling message from him, and our connection seems to be blocked. Is he alright?"

He clutched the wood beneath his fingers tighter, knuckles white. "Christ," he said, head falling forward. He looked up at Connor, and his chest tightened. "N-no, I-... _fuck!_ "

"Calm down, Lieutenant," Markus replied, sounding annoyingly unfazed, and Hank barely resisted the urge to tell him to fuck off. Instead, he took a deep breath and tapped out the count of ten on the doorframe. "Just tell me what's going on." When Hank didn't respond, he added, "The short version, if it's easier."

"He shot himself," Hank said in eventuality, voice dry.

 _That_ left the deviant leader sounding winded. "What?"

Hank growled, anger born of fear rising with the sting of fresh tears. "He _fucking shot himself_ , and I don't know what I'm supposed to do!"

"I-..." Markus stopped, and he sighed at the pang of sympathy that had him clenching his fist against the door. He sounded as lost as Hank felt. The phone line crackled with slight static, Markus being the one to take a breath this time. "Alright. Alright, Lieutenant. Is he still functioning?"

Hank nodded to the empty air. "Yes."

"Good, he has time then," Markus replied, relief clear in his tone. Hank blinked in surprise. He supposed he'd underestimated just how much Connor meant to them, despite having apparently just become a deviant himself. There was the sound of shuffling and muffled voices on the other end before Markus' voice returned, calmer and with a tinge of authority. "Lieutenant, I need you to listen to me. I can't risk getting anyone to you; not with what's happened." Hank winced. Right. The raid on Jericho. He vaguely remembered having the news report running on the television at some point earlier that evening. "You'll need to find a way to stop the flow of Thirium. That should allow his system to reactivate. When he wakes up, ask what biocomponents are damaged. If they're non-critical, he should be fine until we can get to him for repairs."

Hank straightened. He didn't want to ask. "And if they are?"

Markus was silent for a long minute. Then, gently, he said, "It'll be best that he's not alone." More muffled noises; shouts. "I have to go. Take care of him, Lieutenant. Good luck."

"Wait-!" Hank tried, but the line had already clicked dead. With a noise of pure frustration, he threw the phone against the far wall, where it shattered into pieces on the counter. "Fuckin' androids!" Sumo lifted his head at the disturbance and barked, and damn if it didn't sound condescending. Running his hands over his face, Hank sighed once more. He crouched next to the dog and ruffled his fingers through Sumo's fur. "I know, boy. I know."

He hovered there a moment longer. Then, shooing Sumo away, he gingerly sat Connor upright. Hank did his best to make sure his partner's chin sat in such a way that would hold the sweater in place before hefting him into his arms and carrying him into the living room. Connor was lighter than Hank figured a human his age appearance-wise would be, but he was still breathing heavily by the time he managed to get him situated on the couch. After all, if these could be his last minutes, better he be somewhere comfortable and not sprawled out on the cold kitchen floor. The consideration made Hank's stomach twist painfully.

The couch sunk with his weight as he settled next to Connor on its edge. Leaning forward, he peeled the sweatshirt away from the wound for a second, and felt his shoulders sag in relief. Thirium continued to trickle, but it was a thin, unsteady stream. He lifted his gaze up, to Connor's still expression. It showed no sign of change. The only indication he had that his partner was alive was the light on his temple.

Giving an exhausted sigh, Hank returned the sweater back to its original spot and reached down. He took Connor's hand and drew it up, clutching tightly, resting where his heart would be if he were human. The skin was unnaturally smooth, free of callouses or any such sign of weathering. How many times had he done this for Cole, when he'd been sick, or had woken up from a nightmare? He couldn't remember. Those were the memories he couldn't recall without the pain hitting him, full-force and merciless. The gentle smiles and dried tears and warm hugs. Late nights watching bad movies, waiting for Cole to pass out in his arms.

_They would've adored each other..._

Hank struggled against the telltale knot in his throat and gave Connor's hand a squeeze. "Come on, Connor," he whispered urgently, words breaking. "Come back t' me, son. _Please..._ "

Time passed sluggishly. Hank brushed the stubborn, curled lock of hair from Connor's forehead. Another news bulletin interrupted the game on TV, casting golden and red glows around the room. Something about the deviants 'protesting'. He hated the way the reported stressed the term, with a barely concealed bemused skepticism, as if the idea of androids being upset at the indiscriminate slaughter of their entire species was ridiculous to even consider. This time, they cut the channel's previous programming broadcast entirely, calling on a panel of 'experts' to try and explain what was happening. In Hank's mind, they were all idiots. Like hell the deviants weren't alive. Little hard to deny something's humanity when it's bleeding out in your arms.

He hadn't even realized he'd begun to doze off until movement beneath his fingers nearly gave him a heart attack. There was pressure, weak but present - Connor was squeezing his hand in return. Hank looked down, and was met by half-lidded brown eyes and a tired smile. Fuck having a heart attack - he was pretty sure his heart simply stopped altogether.

"Connor!" His partner's injury, much to his immediate guilt, slipped somewhere in the back of his mind as he took Connor by the jacket and pulled him up, wrapping his arms around him and holding on for dear life. His thumb brushed the back of his neck as Connor buried his face in Hank's chest, forehead pressed to his collarbone. "Jesus Christ..."

"Hank," came Connor's voice, distorted and glitching. It was off-putting, but Hank figured that's what happens as an android when you're shot through the mouth. Connor weakly returned the embrace, drawing a shaky breath, words even more muffled by Hank's shirt. "'m sorry..." He hiccuped out what sounded like a sob, and Hank tightened his hold.

"Shh," he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone, fingers curling in Connor's hair. "Don't be. It's okay. You're okay. You're alive, Connor, it's okay."

"Couldn't..." Connor trailed off as his voice momentarily descended into pure static, and he shook his head, face still hidden. To hide tears, Hank assumed as wetness began to seep into his shirt. "Couldn't let you die."

"And you thought blowin' your own brains out'd solve anything?" he asked, but it lacked the heat to sound properly angry. Connor winced in his hold nonetheless, and Hank sighed. "Fuck, Connor..."

His partner whimpered. It was a sound the man was rapidly growing to hate. "D-Didn't want... t' cause you any more pain, L-Lieutenant," he said quietly, shifting back. Hank reluctantly let him go, watching him straighten and ease a hand up to press against the bunched fabric beneath his chin. His hand settled heavily on the android's shoulder.

"Little late for that, kid," he replied. Connor's eyes fell to his lap, taking on the air of an ashamed child. After a minute, "Markus called." Connor's LED spun to yellow at that, and he glanced back at Hank. The later nodded to his wound. "How bad?"

Connor closed his eyes for a second and let his head fall sideways against the couch cushions, exhaling slowly. "All things considered," he began, voice leveling out somewhat, "could be worse." He offered a brief smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "I've lost a-approximately... 1/3 of my Thirium reserves..." He paused a moment, reading the diagnostic that scrolled through his vision. "And several non-critical biocomponents have been damaged."

"So...?" Hank raised an eyebrow. "You're not gonna shut down on me again or anything, are ya?"

Connor huffed a tired, almost-laugh. "Don't think so," he said. Lifting his gaze, he looked at Hank with what could only be described as a mix of remorse and shame. "I'm-"

"For fuck's sake, if you apologize one more time," Hank interrupted but didn't finish, leaving the half-threat hanging in the air between them. To his credit, Connor didn't, in fact, apologize again.

"I wasn't thinking," he said softly. His free hand, resting on his thigh, curled into a fist that began to tremble. "It was selfish. I shouldn't've come in the first place, I only made things worse, I just-" His voice became strained again, and he looked to the floor once again. "I just wanted you to be safe."

"Deviants have a tendency to self-destruct in stressful situations," Hank recited. Connor snapped back 'round to face him, eyes wide. "Isn't that what you told Reed?" Connor opened his mouth to respond, but Hank beat him to the punch, something dark coming over his expression. "I didn't exactly give you another out, Connor."

Connor seemed taken aback. "H-Hank," he replied. "It's not your-"

"Fuck that," Hank snapped, but avoided looking at him, eyes glued to the TV. His tone eased into something gentler. "Sure as shit isn't all on you. If you hadn't come lookin', I'm pretty sure I'd be the one with a head full'a lead right now, so shut it, alright?"

There was a finality in his voice that Connor caught on to or, at least, if he didn't, he had enough wherewithal not to try and argue. He swiveled instead, shuffling on the couch to face the television as well, watching as the feed shifted to a live view of Detroit's streets. The camera had focused on a group of androids heading toward what looked like Hart Plaza. It was a view from behind, but Connor recognized several familiar forms regardless, and stiffened.

"Markus..."

"We're coming to you live from Detroit where thousands of androids are marching through the city at this very moment," the reporter was announcing from a helicopter. "The leader of the deviants, the one they call Markus, is at the head of the march. As of yet, there has been no word on whether or not there will be military intervention, but given President Warren's press briefing earlier today, tensions are high."

Connor shot to his feet, but immediately wavered, and was forced to grab the armrest of the couch for support. Hank was beside him in the next instant, taking hold of his elbow.

"Hey," he said, brow furrowed. "Where do you think you're going?"

Connor shook him off and set the Thirium-stained sweater on the back of the couch as he shakily made his way to the door, a hand on the couch, and then the wall to keep himself upright. Several warnings told him that his system couldn't take the stress, but he dismissed them. "I have to get to CyberLife," he replied, sounding a little frantic. "Markus doesn't have the numbers; if I don't, they'll all be killed." Connor reached for the doorknob, only to miscalculate the distance and stumble. He would've hit the ground, if Hank hadn't caught him with an arm around his waist and hauled him back up.

"Whoa, hey!" He leaned Connor back against the wall. Pain practically rolled off the kid in waves. A downside of being deviant, if Hank had to guess. "Take it easy. You can't just go galavanting off, lookin' like this. You can barely stand."

"I can make the excuse that I'm coming in for repairs," Connor said, trying to sound calm, but it was too breathless for it to be anywhere near convincing. "Please, Hank. I can't do nothing."

Hank looked him over for a moment, arms crossed, then gave a forceful-sounding sigh. He disappeared off down the darkened hallway to Connor's left, leaving the android with a strike of something hard to his systems. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, and he blinked them away. Pressing the flat of his palm to the wall, Connor forced his limbs to comply, teetering uneasily before taking the last few decisive steps to the door. He turned, however, when he heard Hank come back. A question leapt to his gaze when he saw what the Lieutenant was holding.

"Here." Hank tossed him the bundle of clothes - his CyberLife uniform. "You'll stick out like a sore thumb wearing anything but that." The man brushed past him, collecting his own jacket from the chair in the corner. Connor watched him, bewildered.

"Hank, what are you-"

"I'm coming with you, dipshit," he replied, cutting him off, and continued before Connor could protest, once again with a look and tone that left no room for discussion. "If you can't sit here and do nothing, don't ask me to either." Hank stepped forward and returned his hand to Connor's shoulder, something certain and unmistakably fond in his gaze. That warmth Connor had decided he liked filled his chest. "You're not doin' this alone. You're my partner, and I'm keepin' an eye on you, got it?"

Connor smiled, bright and wide.

"Got it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, okay, i couldn't let this sit any longer. Feel free to let the first chapter stand alone if you wish - this is just me being an emotional wreck and wanting a happy ending :) Oh, and some angsty Hank, but I blame Bryan and his stream yesterday for that.
> 
> if it wasn't obvious, this entire piece was inspired by X Ambassadors' "Unsteady". Go give it a listen, and better yet, watch the dance video. I promise, it's amazing.


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